


The Night Breathes Deeply

by EudociaCovert



Series: The Best Path [8]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, FOR GOOD THO, Friendship, Gen, Jet is manipulative, Thievery, Which Zuko Absolutely Believes Deserves a Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 17:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EudociaCovert/pseuds/EudociaCovert
Summary: Zuko's night is interrupted. Some interruptions are more welcome than others. Part 8 in 'The Best Path' series.





	The Night Breathes Deeply

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a fan of long author's notes, but I feel like I owe everyone who's poured so much love on this series an explanation for how long it's taken me. So here are three things I wanted to get out of the way:
> 
> 1\. I could not get what I wanted to write written. It was actually painful. After an embarrassing amount of time I decided to skip the portion I was struggling to write, and address it later in the story through dialog. This decision promptly kicked my writer's block in the pants, to my utter delight.
> 
> 2\. These last few years may have been the hardest in my life so far, which isn't a claim I make lightly. I don't know if I would even be able to recognize the girl who started writing this story, so much has changed. One thing that hasn't is that I flippin love this series, and I have so much more to tell.
> 
> 3\. I hereby dedicate the entirety of The Best Path to two of my most precious people. To my dad, a complicated man whose support and opposition made me who I am today, and to my dear friend, whose courage and love helped me discover who I wanted to be. This world makes so much less sense without you two in it.
> 
> And without further ado... please enjoy.

It might be the whisper of a noise that wakes him, or just a sudden and unaccountable sense that something is wrong. Zuko wastes a moment fighting through his own lethargy before a harsh wariness of coming danger crashes over his mind. He stands, brushing loose straw off his clothes and sleep from his eyes. The weight of his Dao resting against his hip settles him. Creeping on quiet feet, Zuko approaches the barn doors. Through the thin gap between their solid shapes he catches sight of a wagon, just out of hearing range, tinted orange with the light of a single burning lamp. Shadows strain away from the light, as one, two, three figures dart past the warm glow. A moment later the lamp is snuffed out. Zuko draws his blades.

He steps back and waits. All the thieves he’s encountered so far have been easy to divert. The majority left after testing the well secured barn door, and the few who’d made it inside were easily driven away. Best to wait and see is the security measures he’s placed are enough of a deterrent before acting.

Footsteps approach. There is a jingle of chain as the lock Farmer An secures each night is tested. A press forward, and they’ve discovered the iron spikes Zuko drives into the ground after he’s locked in. It’s a small source of pride for him, how little give the doors have.

There’s a flurry of hushed movement, and then a single, audible chuckle. It sets the hairs on the back of Zuko’s neck on end.

“You’re a clever dog-pig, aren’t you?”

Is- is the thief talking to him? Do they know he’s here? Have they been watching, biding their time, or is the taunt meant to trick him into revealing himself? He crouches lower, hands firming in the hilts of his Dao.

“Yes, very clever. But not _quite_ clever enough.”

The sound of running footsteps. There are a lot of them, a lot more than he was anticipating. Zuko’s eyes dart to the side, to an innocuous tube sitting by his makeshift bed. It’s a one-time use flare, handed to him the day he took the job and unneeded in the three weeks since.

Zuko’s eyes widen as a familiar smell fills the air. How did they get- no time. He sheaths his Dao smoothly and dives for his stack of straw, his hand closing around the flare-

A combustive pop of light and sound and the doors shudder before listing inwards, gaining momentum, and hitting the ground with a crash.

Blasting jelly.

Zuko scampers deeper into the barn before the smoke clears, staying low. He pulls the swath of fabric around his neck up to cover his nose and mouth. He’s outclassed in numbers and weapons, his only advantage is stealth, if he coughs from the smoke…. Where does he hide? Left, right? No, up.

He’s halfway up a stack of boxes when the sound of footsteps, sure and authoritative, reach his ears. “Well, this is a pleasant sight.” the man says.

Zuko’s reached the peak. It’s not an easy jump, but it shouldn’t be impossible. Gather himself, steady, and leap-

“Search everywhere.”

Zuko’s fingers find purchase. He swings one leg up and over the thick wooden beam, then twists- There are men in the warehouse now, two dozen maybe, armed with blades, farm implements, and hearty sticks.

“We aren’t your enemy,” the leader calls out, still in the doorway. “Who could be the enemy of a puppet? No, our quarrel is with your master.”

The word sticks, and Zuko grimaces. Who do they mean? Farmer An?

“Let me guess, you’re a refugee. Young, good with a weapon, with not a soul in this damned city who knows your name. You’re hungry, cold, and then this farmer picks you up off the streets, like a stray, and offered you a dry and warm place to stay and a meal or two a day in exchange for protecting his stores during the night.”

Zuko creeps forward, quick but careful. The words don’t slide off him like they should, instead digging into every tiny injustice he’s swallowed since stepping through the walls of Ba Sing Se and turning in his gut.

“I understand why you agreed. You were desperate, weren’t you? But you’ve only stepped closer to the beast, my friend. The reason you lived like that, starving and desperate, is because of farmers like the one who _bought_ you. All this rice here, it’s not going to be sold to refugees, to good people living awful lives just one wall away. No, it’s all going to rich Middle-Ring bastards, and you’re letting that happen. Come out now, and we’ll forgive you.”

Zuko can see the speaker now. He’s tall and wide shouldered, with a dark beard and eyes that glitter in the dark. He can’t take him out, the sudden lack of monologuing would alert the others in an instant. He needs to pick them off before-

The leader sighs. “If you can’t find him, just start loading up,”

“Keep an eye on the rafters,” someone pipes up from the back of the barn. “He likes high places.”

“If you try to pick us off,” the leader bellows, “we’ll light the whole place ablaze. You’ve got more to lose here than we do.”

Dammit. The pieces fall into place in Zuko’s mind, and they grate. The lackluster thieves who’ve been plaguing his nights were never there to steal, were they? They came to test Zuko, to learn his methods, to play him. A feeling steeped in childhood memory sweeps over him, equal parts shame and ineffectual anger.

So. He can’t fight them, he can’t catch them. Then he must escape them, outthink them.

Where can he go? Down? Deeper in? Towards the door?

Up? Up.

There are a good twenty thieves below him, moving box after box full of rice out of the broken doors, passed the leader. He checks each of them with sharp eyes before waving them past. It takes Zuko a bit of time to find a loose section in the roof, and longer to quietly draw his Dao and slot them into place. Then it’s a tense wait, fueled more by desperate hope than probability, for something, anything to make a noise, to draw attention, anything…

A box is dropped. In the same moment it hits the ground Zuko snaps his arms down, prying the roof apart just enough to-

He’s outside, he’s safe; not for good, but for a moment. The flare is still tucked snugly against his side, held by the sash around his waist. He could-

“I have to say, I thought Mu was being paranoid posting me up here, but no. You really are that impressive.”

Zuko’s moving before he’s fully registered that there’s someone on the roof with him, twisting away from the sound of a blade tearing through the air, solidifying his stance and lifting his Dao, ready to meet the charging figure silhouetted against the moonlight.

His attacker draws short, taking a startled, shuddery breath. “Wait-”

Zuko doesn’t.

Slice out, kick for the knee-

-meet air, jump back- 

-feel metal slip around the back of the heel and pull-

-twist to land on one foot and hand, losing grip of one Dao but push off and stab with the other before the turn bares his back-

-catch fabric, feel alarm as the attacker’s fingernails graze the back of Zuko’s neck before tangling in the cloth wound around Zuko’s face and neck as their weapon clatters down-

-choke at the sudden pressure on his throat and wheeze as he hits the roof on his back, the figure releasing and rising above-

“Hold on, just-”

Kick up and meet a stomach, snatch up the enemy’s weapon, twist onto his feet-

Stop.

The weapon is thin, long, wickedly sharp. Hooked on the end. It’s twin sits in his opponent’s grip.

The haze of danger abates, and the formless enemy melts into someone else. Someone Zuko was never supposed to meet again. Someone tall and wiry with mismatched armor, wild hair, and a cutting grin, teeth barely visible in the low light.

“Hey, Blue.” Jet says. “Long time no see.”

For one moment there is nothing, no thought, no movement. The night holds them frozen.

“Jet?” Zuko hisses out, finally. “What the _hell?!_”

Jet laughs, quiet, yet somehow wild. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”

“How are you _here_?” the realities of the situation impose themselves, and Zuko scowls. “Why are you with _these_ people?”

“There are worst people to fall in with,” Jet states, waving a hand like he’s shooing the question away. “But we’ll have time to talk about that later. You need to get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving.” Zuko argues. “This is my _job_; I can’t just sit by while they-”

“Mu’s right,” Jet cuts in sharply. “You’ve got to see that. Carts of food roll past hundreds of starving refugees every day and straight into the bellies of the fat, cowardly, willfully blind nobles living in the Middle Ring.”

“Then steal the rice from _them_,” Zuko bites out, “not the farmers. The farmers are just a symptom. You don’t slap a snakebite for burning. You cut the head off the snake.”

The air between them hangs thick. Jet’s staring, eyes unfathomable, still smiling. That old angry shame grows with each passing moment as Zuko’s conviction wavers. It’s an arrogant, childish assumption that Jet will suddenly see things Zuko’s way. Jet isn’t on his side anymore, and Jet doesn’t owe him anything. Why does he expect the freedom fighter to listen when it was Zuko who left, Zuko who put Jet in danger in the first place, Zuko who put an end to any kind of friendship they might have had after taking Jet’s very _name_ from him-

“Then we need to go about this another way.”

Zuko blinks. Frowns. “What?”

“You have to let them steal the rice tonight.”

Zuko tenses, strengthening his grip on his remaining Dao. “No, I don’t.”

This hurts. Thinking he’d never see the Freedom Fighters again had hurt too, but not like this. This, the two of them on opposite sides of a battle, weapons ready, is _exactly_ what Zuko was always so afraid would happen. He tried so hard to keep this from happening, and the fact that it did anyway...

Jet bends down, careful, eyes wary, and lays his blade on the roof. “Blue,” he says, standing slowly, empty hands held up. “_Shi._ I’m not going to fight you.”

The Dao shakes in Zuko’s grip. This is so much worse. Him standing armed, fire in his veins, while Jet stands unarmed before him, his eyes _pleading_…

_…and suffering will be your teacher._

Zuko drops his weapon. Jet takes a step forward, then another, another, his hand reaching out to carefully, so carefully, rest on Zuko’s shoulder.

“I’m not telling you to give up,” Jet says, his voice even and soothing. “and I’m not telling you that you have to fight me. What I meant is that you should retreat _for tonight_. Even with my help we’re too outnumbered, out planned. So, we let them steal it, and then later, when it’s safer, I’ll help you steal it back. That’s what I was thinking.”

“That’s-” Zuko clears his throat. His voice is too rough, too small. “I don’t know if this is the smartest plan.”

Jet smiles, a little lopsided, a little real. “It definitely isn’t. But it’s the only one I can think of right now that keeps us on the same side. And that’s what’s most important to me.”

Always this. Why does it _always_ come back to this? Why does it get so much harder to say, every time Zuko had to say it? Why did he _still_ have to say it?

“I’m _not one of yours_.” He bites out, as sharply, as bitterly as he can manage-

“You don’t get to decide that,” Jet counters, firm as a mountain. He squeezes Zuko’s shoulder, as if he knows how heavy the weight of his words sit. “You don’t get to decide how I see you, or what I’m willing to give for you. You only get to decide if I’m one of _yours._ Can you say _that _to me, Shi? Can you look me in the face and tell me I’m not one of yours?”

And Zuko.

Zuko can’t.

He opens his mouth, he _tries, _he _wants to_, but…

He can’t. He knows. He _knows_ why he should say it, even if he can’t mean it, even if seeing Jet again alights something in him that he swore was dead, he _knows_.

But he _can’t._

“I’ll help you get the rice back,” Jet says. “I promise.” With one last squeeze Zuko is released. Jet steps back. “I’ll meet you at the lower-ring’s outer gate when the sun’s highest in the sky. Trust me. Now _go._”

Zuko goes.


End file.
